


chiaroscuro

by ndnickerson



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had seen him entirely naked, for the first time, in front of a group of suspects and one of his frat brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chiaroscuro

The Emerson campus was smothered under the heat of an early fall day. The sky was so blue it made Nancy's throat ache to look at it, and a thin trace of sweat marked the inside of her shoulder blades. The cold air in the art building was still shivering in her lungs when Nancy, her backpack half off, sliding down and dangling from one hand, pushed into the converted darkroom. Maury Becker was already there, a tangle of computer cables in his fist, a lock of hair falling just over the thick black rim of his glasses.

Nancy stopped for a breath. "How are things looking so far?"

"Just getting set up." Maury squatted under a stained countertop, fumbling for an outlet, wrinkling his nose at the lingering smell of darkroom chemicals. For an unguarded second Nancy remembered Ned's hand on hers as they washed a print in one of the thick basins, a tide of clear water lapping over the paper with the rhythm of his hand's rocking.

The old art rooms had, for the most part, been abandoned. For a campus that prided itself on environmental friendliness, Emerson was always quick to break ground on a new project. A space that had once housed all of Emerson's undergraduate art students was now devoted solely to the advanced art majors, studying the forms and techniques of the Italian masters, leaving this relic of a long-outdated art. The old darkroom had been turned into a projection room, with a glass viewing window, shielded to keep the lighting in the airy studio consistent.

Four students were already unpacking their supplies, with another handful setting up their easels. Mrs. Delacroix, the instructor, was impatiently tugging at a background drape; Nancy, feeling the same restlessness, asked Maury if she could help with anything, and found herself running an ethernet cord from a port to his laptop.

"And you're sure this'll work?"

Maury shrugged, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "If one of them uses the school wi-fi to transmit the photo, we'll get them."

Nancy nodded to herself. "And you said they have to..."

"There's only the school wi-fi out here. Smartphones have their own—"

Maury launched into one of his technical explanations and Nancy settled into a creaking, time-brittle chair, cupping the point of her chin in her hand. One of the students, unaware of Nancy's observation, was trimming a charcoal pencil. A guy was making a few last touches to an old sketch before he flipped to a clean sheet. A pedestal stood empty under an improvised spotlight, the only other illumination individual lamps over each workstation.

"Your contrapposto projects were generally pretty good, but now we have to go back over some old ground," Mrs. Delacroix sighed, her hands clasped as she made a slow, pacing circle around the class members. "We'll be doing monochromatic examples of chiaroscuro today, and next week we'll do full-color, but for now, remember what we went over for human subjects. Pay close attention to detail, to the angles and skeletal position. We'll do a longer session tomorrow, but for today, we have a guest subject, so just work on some small-detail studies."

The dean had called Nancy in after a student had attempted suicide. The girl had been trying to make a few extra bucks, and when she learned that many of the art sketch models earned a pittance often supplemented by individual session fees, she had posed for a few classes at the beginning of the semester. Posing for the sketches didn't disturb her, but when cellphone-quality photos of her, naked and clearly posed for the sessions, had made the rounds among the students, the teasing and ribbing had been too much. While Dean Jarvis was understandably concerned over what had happened, he wanted to limit publicity for the case, for her sake and for Emerson's sake.

After some impassioned pleading and some bribing on Nancy's part, Bess had agreed to guest-model for the class, while wearing a wig. While she had been hoping for something in a flowing diaphanous gown fit for Halloween or a Greek goddess, the only way they could guarantee that the culprit would take the bait was with a nude session. As Mrs. Delacroix gestured for the robed model to enter, Nancy scrutinized the students, looking for the telltale hand in a pocket, fumbling with a cell phone. From the corner of her eye she saw the model strip off the robe, but didn't turn to look. She had no particular desire to see Bess naked. When Maury released a low, nearly silent whistle, Nancy wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Never thought he'd have it in him."

Nancy was turning to ask exactly what he meant, when her gaze fell on the model.

It wasn't Bess. Nancy felt a flash of irritation, but—

His face. Ned's face. His familiar brown hair, the broad musculature of his chest, his—

Her gaze fell and a blush rose in her cheeks.

He was naked. Her boyfriend was very, very naked in front of an entire advanced art class, and she had seen him in a bathing suit, even once in soaking-wet boxers, but there was that ridge, that saddle of flesh that notched his hips, drawing her gaze down between his legs, the line of coarse hair that began at his navel, down.

And he wasn't showing off for them. While it seemed, for Nancy, to take an eternity, Ned turned and settled with his back to the majority of the room, but to her he was in silhouette, one hand casually curled on his thigh.

She had seen him entirely naked, for the first time, in front of a group of suspects and one of his frat brothers. The careful lighting cast half of him into shadow; that was the point of chiaroscuro, the partial obscuring. Even under the stark light his skin looked warm, inviting the caress of a palm, and when Nancy imagined her fingertips trailing lightly down one bare arm, she knew she didn't imagine Ned's quick glance in her direction, the almost bashful look on his face.

"That was fast."

Nancy jerked her head in Maury's direction. "What?"

Maury pointed. "There."

One of the female art students had her phone out and was carefully lining up a shot. Nancy half-rose to her feet before she remembered that she was out of sight, then sank back down, scowling.

"You didn't notice any - before?"

Maury shook his head. "But, after all, basketball captain, quarterback? I'd be surprised if this wasn't already all over the internal network."

Nancy sighed, sitting back, rolling her shoulders. Maury, with a startled, happy cry, started clicking his way through a series of screens.

"I can intercept them, if you want."

"Yes," Nancy replied immediately.

She couldn't look away from Ned. Part of her wanted to go to the door leading to the studio, to beckon him out of there. From her angle she could only see a few easels, the studies the students were sketching of the angle of his knee, his tensed ankle, his palm against his thigh. She wondered if any of them were considering the lines of his buttocks, the arch of his spine.

Like she was.

\--

"The Dean's gonna give you the keys to Emersonville before you get out of here, you know."

"He was pretty excited, wasn't he."

Nancy kept glancing at the duffel bag casually slung over Ned's shoulder as they crossed a leaf-strewn slope. Here the trees were older, taller, and between them the shadows were cool and dim. The last dying rays of the setting sun barely penetrated the foliage.

"He'd leave his wife for you in a second," Ned teased her. Nancy directed a lazy punch at his arm, but they kept a comfortable matched gait.

"And Miranda is going to be okay."

Ned nodded and hitched his bag a little higher. "Another excellent solution, Detective Drew."

"I just can't figure out where we're going."

They rounded a stand of close-set trees and Nancy caught sight of the angle of a roof. After a few dozen more strides they stood in front of a dilapidated two-story house, the windows falling out of their frames, the chimney half-crumbled.

"You always take me to the most wonderful places, Ned," Nancy said, clutching his arm in a mock display of glee as he chuckled.

"It's the old caretaker's house."

"Putting aside the obvious irony," Nancy sighed, "looks like that wasn't such a bad job."

"It really wasn't." Ned bypassed the front porch, walking around to a side door mostly hidden in cool shadow, the stoop choked with prolific weeds. "After you."

Nancy shook her head, crossing her arms. "I don't think so."

"Remember when I told you about that photography essay I was doing?" On Nancy's nod, he continued. "I scoped out a few abandoned buildings on campus, around the outskirts of Emersonville, and I've been all over this place. Trust me."

Nancy shrugged, taking the flashlight Ned offered and switching it on. The air was musty and a bit damp, but nothing she was unfamiliar with; her cases had taken her through old smuggler's caves, through dank basements and dusty attics, but her flashlight beam caught the faded pattern of a wallpaper that was in vogue ten years before Nancy was even born. Most of the furniture had been removed long ago, but she saw a few tattered couches and tumbled remains of beer cans and red plastic tumblers.

"We have to go upstairs."

Her curiosity piqued, Nancy followed him up the staircase. The carpet squelched in a few places under her sneaker-shod feet, and it was the kind of place that would definitely have given Bess the creeps—

 _So did Bess talk you into posing_ , Nancy wanted to say, felt it rise to her lips, but he had not mentioned it and she had not mentioned it and somehow, the raw truth of _I saw you naked_ just never seemed to be the right thing to say.

"I talked to Maury yesterday."

All the blood drained out of Nancy's head in one swift fall and she clutched the rail for a second before continuing. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I lost a bet. But then you know all about that."

Nancy swallowed. "That was really nice of you. Bess talked you into it, didn't she."

"Actually, no. She just flipped me for it." His fingers brushed her hand. "I knew you had a two-headed coin, but I didn't know she had one."

Despite herself, Nancy laughed. "Sorry. I mean— Ned."

"You saw me naked."

"A little."

For the first time he seemed almost surprised. "You—?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. That was misleading. I saw— everything."

The upper floor was a wide gallery, discolored splotches in the carpet marking holes in the worn-out roof, but an immense picture window with a wide seat drew Nancy's gaze immediately. The inset shelves were emptied of their books, lighter rectangles on the walls marked places where pictures once hung, but the deep woods visible through the window, through a checkerboard of unbroken panes still remaining intact, was spellbinding.

"And I've been thinking that it's only fair..."

Nancy looked over at Ned, the way the dying light was gold on his face, catching the fine strands of his brown hair. He put his duffel bag down on a patch of unmarred carpet.

"Remember when Bess dragged us to see _Titanic_ with her?"

Nancy blinked at the sudden change in topic. "Yeah. And you hated the entire thing."

"Except that one scene."

Nancy scoffed, hooking her thumbs through her belt loops. "Yeah, because you got to see Kate Winslet topless."

"And, since you got to see me naked, I think it's only fair if..."

"If what?" Nancy turned to him, one eyebrow cocked. "I didn't sketch you, honestly, Maury will tell you that. And I've seen your sketches. Your stick figures don't even look like _stick figures_."

Ned clutched with comic sincerity at the vicinity of his heart. "You wound me."

Nancy laughed, although she felt a soft, barely perceptible twinge between her thighs. Surely he wasn't about to say what she thought he was.

"I am terrible at art," he admitted. "Awful, even. And you would know."

Nancy shook her head, blushing. She had been called on to counterfeit masterpieces before, during cases. Her father had gotten her lessons with incredible artists in Chicago when she had been old enough to clutch a charcoal pencil in her fist. She was a natural at it.

"But I'm not too bad with this."

He lifted his camera bag out of the duffel and before she knew it, Nancy's arms were crossed over her chest. Only with an effort was she able to drop her hands back to her sides.

"I seem to remember that there was a pretty big rock above those naked breasts," she heard herself say in a sweetly arch tone, entirely without the shiver that vibrated over her skin, as though she was already naked.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

He couldn't be serious, she kept telling herself. There was no way he was serious. But he dug around in a side pocket of the duffel and withdrew an old-fashioned velvet jewelry bag, cinched with a length of faded-gold silk rope.

"So Le Coeur de la Mer is in there."

A half-smile curled his mouth. "There's only one way to find out."

She caught herself trying to cross her arms again. Jack sketching Rose, his eyes narrowed, tracing and immortalizing every inch of bare skin, the stone around her neck. While sitting between Bess and Ned in a crowded theater, she had found the scene almost unbearably sensual, especially when she was aware of Ned's sudden silence after what had been nearly uninterrupted, if quiet, scoffing.

She nodded toward the jewelry bag, still in his hand. "You'll give me a genuine blue diamond for taking my clothes off."

"Oh, it's not like that," he said. "You make it sound so..."

"Tawdry?" she suggested, letting her hands stray to her waistband, noting the way his gaze stayed there. "Maybe because it is? After all, you stand there, ready to bribe me. And how do I know this isn't going to end up on the Internet?"

That, finally, drew his gaze back up to hers, his own eyebrow raised. "Digital camera; no film to develop or be seen by anyone else," he said. "And I can promise you that no one other than the two of us will ever see these."

His gaze fell just as swiftly when she toyed with the hem of her shirt. Just as quickly, she let them fall back to her sides. "I'll think about it," she said. "Maybe you should take a few shots just to warm up."

He nodded. "Mind helping me?"

He had thought this through. A little too much, she thought. They draped a long-forgotten chaise in a heavy shapeless cloth, and she helped him set the diffusing shades on the lamps that he'd cobbled together from iron stands and flashlights. By then the sky was beginning to redden, darken, and she could sense Ned's impatience to capture it.

"There, by the window."

The first shot, he captured her in silhouette against the sunset, in jeans and her loose white button-down, her hair tumbling down her shoulders. She held no illusion that she was a good model, and she was far more comfortable holding the pen or brush than being captured by it. If he was expecting to see anything like Kate Winslet, she knew he would be sorely disappointed.

It was when she was kicking her sandals off next to the dusty fireplace, the mantel topped by an age-smeared mirror, that she turned to him. "You have to _swear_ , Ned."

"I do swear. I promise." His face was earnest.

The first bare skin she revealed, in the moonlit breeze, was her legs as she peeled her jeans off. She twisted her hair up, tucking her legs under her, revealing just the edge of her panties as she sat gazing through the window, listening to the snap of the shutter as Ned knelt behind her. No one could see them; she was sure of that. Her only fear was that a crowd of half-drunk partyers would stumble in downstairs, trapping them up here.

When she sprawled on the chaise, one knee bent, her arms above her head, her gaze low-lidded as she faced Ned, the look on his face was gratifying, if a little scary. She knew that he wanted her, had long known that he wanted her, but seeing him like this... She felt another soft twinge between her thighs, at once glad and regretful that she had chosen a relatively nondescript white lace bra and white cotton bikini panties when dressing for their evening.

"Can you just undo one button?"

She sat up and obliged, her movements slow and languorous, and when Ned lowered the camera, a pleased expression on his face, Nancy held his gaze. With swift practiced movements she snaked her arms under her shirt and unhooked her bra, then pulled it off without taking her shirt off. Through the thin fabric she felt the slight chill in the otherwise thick summer air, felt her nipples tighten under Ned's hungry gaze. She began to slowly unbutton the shirt and a swift snap of Ned's camera arrested her, finger and thumb at one button, shirt open to expose the pale skin between her breasts.

"I feel like some airheaded lingerie model."

Ned's gaze flicked up to her face. "Sit down, Nan."

She did, puzzled when Ned took the camera from around his neck, brushing off the mantel before he set it there. He came toward her and slid a knee between hers, kneeling over her, the lights casting a stark halo around his head as the tip of his nose touched hers. She was almost uncomfortably aware of his knee flush between her legs and that slight pause, the hint of vulnerability in his gaze just before he closed the distance between them, made her melt.

He kissed her, lips parted, hard, his hand coming up, fingers buried in her hair. She felt her hair come down under his touch, felt the heat of his closeness radiating against her loosed breasts, and relaxed, sliding down until her back was propped against the back of the chaise. His palm pressed, fingers splayed, over the small of her back, and her hips twisted ever so slightly, rubbing gently against his knee, and she felt a hot rush there, suffusing her chest. She brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek, and when he pulled back, she let her arm fall back, to line the back of the couch.

"Just like that."

Later, when she saw the picture he took of her, she was again uncomfortably stricken by the raw sensuality of it. She sat with her knees parted, the white of her panties showing between, the points of her nipples showing through the shirt, her hair in a careless tangle, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Only a cigarette would have made the image complete, of a defenseless woman thoroughly ravaged by the touch of her man. At the time, though, she was only aware of the hot beat of a second pulse between her thighs, the speechlessness of her desire.

Ned lowered the camera. "I don't want anyone, anyone else to ever see you this way," he whispered, low and almost fierce. "Like liquid sex."

Nancy swallowed, bringing her knees together, pushing herself up. Her breasts strained against her shirt and she was uncomfortably aware of the texture of the fabric against her bare nipples.

"I'll take my shirt off if you take off yours."

She barely had the last syllable out of her mouth before Ned was yanking his shirt over his head. She walked over to her shoes and jeans, swiftly unfastening the remaining buttons, and the shutter snapped behind her as she slipped out of her shirt, leaving her naked save her panties, which felt thinner by the second.

She looked defenseless in the next shot, facing away from the camera, legs tucked up as she lay on the chaise. She looked pensive in the next, her modesty left intact only by the deep shadow of her arms as she leaned forward, hair falling down.

Then he had her sprawl on the drop cloth, her hair spread around her head, biting her thumb as she gazed at him through the lens. She perched on her knees and elbows, glaring from beneath her lashes, pouting. Between shots her self-consciousness got the best of her and she laughed, and he captured her that way too, her expression a million times more genuine.

It was when she was lying there, gazing up at him with wide, nervous eyes, that she hooked her thumb in the waistband of her panties. "I think I'm ready," she said softly. "But only if we make a little deal."

The jewel in the bag, hanging from an antique silver chain, was a square-cut sapphire, surrounded by what were probably crystals, and when she lay on the chaise in a pose he duplicated from memory, legs twisted just-so to hide the join of her thighs, the necklace being warmed by her bare skin, Ned was naked on the other side of the camera, per their deal. He was on the outer edge of the illumination, and she studied the lines of his body at her leisure, her gaze sweeping over the definition of his abs and thighs, that most male part of him. Her gaze went back up to his as he lowered the camera, to find his own gaze centered below her navel.

She sat up, propping her hands on the edge of the chaise, on either side of her knees. "Do you have a tripod in that bag of tricks?"

He half-smiled. "Is that a metaphor?"

She blushed, her lips parting in shock, and Ned laughed. "It's okay." He put the camera down, stepping into the light. "Go ahead and look."

She did look, at first with the briefest of glances. He took another few steps closer and his half-erect cock was in her direct line of sight, and she half-raised a hand, wondering what it felt like. Their aborted fumblings had never quite gone so far.

"I want a picture of us," she explained.

The first shot found them with their backs to the camera, facing each other, listening for the countdown signal. She was trembling, a little, halfheartedly blaming it on the night air.

"My father will murder you if he finds any of these."

"But he'll know that you talked me into it."

She scoffed and shoved him, laughing.

"That's it. Just forget the camera's even there."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," she laughed. "Anything else you want to reenact, in the name of art?"

Ned shook his head. "Just one thing."

In the last shot of the evening they were naked before the camera, facing each other, hands clasped between them. They were a little off-center, but she liked that better; they didn't look quite so posed. Then Ned turned the camera off and they were just a man and a woman, naked, facing each other. She ran her thumb under the links of the chain and then took the necklace off, letting it pool in her hand.

"It's yours, Nan."

She shook her head. "That isn't why I did this."

He closed his hand around hers, folding her fingers closed over the necklace. He was too close. His thumb rubbed down the line of her fingers.

She was disturbed by how much she wanted him to touch her, how her awareness thrummed just under her skin.

The fine hairs on his arms were nearly translucent under the light. She took his hand as she put the necklace on the mantel, and then, by slow degrees, stepped in close to him, until his heat radiated over her.

He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "What are we doing," he whispered, his gaze steady on hers.

She shook her head. "I keep telling myself that all I want is for you to touch me," she whispered. "That that couldn't possibly be so bad."

He smiled. "That's all I want, too," he said. "Except I'm pretty sure something will definitely happen, if you do."

She tugged him down to the drop cloth, the only surface in the room that she trusted, and lay facing him. When her fingertips trailed down his side, brushing the fine hair beneath his navel, he arched toward her touch, his own fingertips gently circling her breast, drawing toward her nipple.

"Is this what you want? Here?"

She shook her head, languorously.

"Then we have to stop."

"Yeah," she agreed. Then her hand closed around his cock, her palm sliding smoothly down his shaft, and he shivered, squeezing her breast. He kneaded her sensitive flesh as she gazed down between his thighs, at the flush of his erection. On her third stroke he grasped her hips and rolled onto his back, pulling her over him. When he lightly pinched her nipples she let out a low, guttural cry, feeling a slow clench between her thighs as she rubbed the ball of her thumb over the head of his cock.

"Please, touch me," she whispered, releasing his cock to curiously stroke a gentle fingertip over the paper-thin flesh of his balls, the curve of his inner thighs. He let out a strangled moan, grasping her wrist and pulling her hand away from him, as he rolled over, maneuvering her onto her back. With unshaken trust she bent her knees, drawing them up and apart, parting herself for him.

"You're enough to drive a man crazy," he whispered, his knees between her open thighs, kneeling down until their noses were touching. She parted her lips, breathing his breath as he hesitated, and then his mouth was crushed to hers and his hand, his palms were warm as they ran down her sides. He pulled back and their lips parted with an audible pop, her breath quick as he pressed kisses down the sweat-damp line of her throat. The backs of his fingers ghosted up her inner thighs, looped up to draw spirals over her abs, and then his lips, his teeth, his mouth found her right breast and he cupped one palm between her thighs and she shivered.

Her hands roamed over his broad shoulders, and she whispered something like a prayer as he gently, slowly parted the flesh between her thighs, pressed his thumb between, smooth and frictionless against the slick inner folds. He dug his thumb down and when he found her clit for the first time he bit her nipple and she whimpered in the terrible pleasure of it. He bit her other nipple as her hips surged under him, grinding into the rhythm of his touch, and then he pulled back, breathing in her moans as he sealed his mouth to hers again, his tongue in her mouth, holding her open as he slowly, achingly slowly squirmed one finger, then another, into the untouched hollow between her legs, hot and wet, another, preparing her for the girth of him, his thumb tracing the hot slick of her arousal over her clit.

She arched and trembled under him, snapping her head back, and then she sank her teeth into his neck, screaming into his skin as he thrust his fingers between her thighs, again and again, harder and faster each time, her hips grinding against his touch. Every nerve, every muscle in her entire body was tensed, waiting, thrumming with anticipation. Anticipation of him, of his length and girth, of his cock.

This wasn't happening. She wasn't about to lose her virginity in a dilapidated house at the edge of Emerson's campus, on a drop cloth, a camera on a tripod bearing silent witness. No. This was the kind of night that rose petals and white candles were meant to commemorate.

That disbelief was banished in a breathless second, as his thumb flicked her clit. She would lose her mind if he didn't fuck her, if she didn't feel him inside her right now, where she ached, the flesh tender from the frantic stroke of his suddenly inadequate fingers.

It took every ounce of control she had, to seize his wrist, to arrest the thrust of his hand, to kiss his flushed mouth and whisper, "Ned, please," her other hand finding his cock and leading him to her, the wet flushed throb of her, "now."

He hesitated. He actually hesitated. She let out a cry of shock and despair as he rolled away from her, only to rummage frantically in one of the side pockets of his duffel bag. Even so, she grinned when she saw the flash of the foil packet, a blur in his fingers as he ripped it open, stroking the wet glide of her arousal over his bare cock before rolling the condom on. Then he came back to her, but he looked thoughtful.

He offered her his hand. "Come here."

She watched him lie down on the chaise, and then he reached for her, and she shivered as she climbed over him, straddling him. "Open yourself for me, baby," he told her, and she angled her hips, parting herself for him. He pushed her hips down and toward him, positioning his cock at her opening. He barely, just barely, fitted the tip of his cock between the press of her inner lips and she sighed.

He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs rubbing her nipples. "Touch your clit," he murmured. When her eyes popped open in shock, he nodded. "Up at the top. Stroke it and when you feel like you can't take it anymore..." He squeezed her breasts. "When you can't take it anymore, just let yourself go."

She still hesitated. Then he rolled one of her nipples in a tight pinch between his fingers, and with his other hand he led her index finger between her thighs, and then her fingertip brushed her clit and with a gasped sob she shivered, brushing it harder, again, again, until she was frantically stroking her clit and Ned was pinching her nipples in time, soothing them with softer caresses before he began again, and his cock jumped a little against her.

That pressure, that fragile desire, was rising in her again. She slid her finger deeper between the folds of flesh, finding the hot gush of her arousal, and when she touched her clit again she shuddered, and she grasped the base of his cock, making sure he was still in place.

She mounted him in agonizingly slow inches, her hips sinking a little further each time until the pain was too much, her hand still working between her thighs. She parted her knees a little further and then, suddenly, her knee slipped off the edge and oh, oh fuck, the pain was enough to shock her to stillness, he was fully inside her and she was too sensitive, too tender, and then Ned arched his back and she cried out, grabbing the back of the chaise, and she was rhythmically thrusting her hips even through the pain.

And then the pain, the soreness, the sensation that she was in some elemental way breaking passed and Ned rose, suckling hard on her breast as his hips thrust, his cock driving deep inside her. When he bent his knees, bracing her against the back, and fucked her, leaving her powerless and only shaking in answer, she was relieved. Her nail caught the tip of her clit and she cried out, his cock driving home between her thighs as her orgasm crashed over her.

"I feel like I'm going to break you," he panted. She could only nod, and he softened his thrusts, capturing her mouth with his. She slid her arms around him and returned it, raking her nails down over his ass, and with a cry he trembled with one last hard thrust.

Then he pulled back, gleaming with sweat, to meet her gaze.

"Are you okay?"

She could only nod in answer, still gasping for breath. After a moment she managed, "And you came here with no idea this was going to happen, and condoms in your bag."

Ned shrugged one muscular shoulder, half smiling. "What can I say," he returned. "Always be prepared."


End file.
